


pray for love.

by dogbites (orphan_account)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alley Sex, Anal Fingering, M/M, Slightly Questionable Consent, Touch-Starved, clandestine meetings, heartbreak?, someone send help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 06:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8738236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/dogbites
Summary: "You're being very quiet."A kiss on the rise of a shoulder, on a naked neck. Credence rocks back on his heels, hands held up and pressed to Mr. Graves' jacket. He's so hard it hurts."I'm trying to be good, Mr. Graves."





	

**Author's Note:**

> No idea what this is, honestly.

_In this version of events, Grindelwald hadn't needed to interfere._  
  
  
  
  
"You're being very quiet."  
  
A kiss on the rise of a shoulder, on a naked neck. Credence rocks back on his heels, hands held up and pressed to Mr. Graves' jacket. He's so hard it hurts.  
  
"I'm trying to be good, Mr. Graves."  
  
A weathered hand pulls roughly at the lip of Credence's shirt, rides it up until the flat of his belly is exposed to the cool night air. Knuckles brush at the jut of his hips, caresses their way up to the spaces between his ribs, and there-- there the fingers unfurl at the midriff, the same fingers --warmer than the weather should merit— pinching at a hardened nub.  
  
"Is it for me, or for your mother?"  
  
Another pinch. Then a twist.  
  
A thumb reaches up to Credence's face, pushes against his mouth until teeth part, and Mr. Graves is hissing — bite it, be a good boy for me--  
  
He comes (just like that), fully dressed, with the salt-sweet taste of another man's broken skin sticking to the back of his throat.  
  
  
  
  
_In this version of events, Grindelwald doesn't have to take his face, or assume his identity._  
  
  
  
  
Credence has never been naked in the presence of another person, let alone a man who wants him lying on his back, who wants his legs splayed wide apart, who kisses him from the ankles up to the crease where his thighs meet his hips—  
  
_Mr. Graves_ , Credence sobs, over and over again like a prayer as he keeps his palms tightly pressed over his mouth. Mr. Graves pays him no mind. Why should he? He's four fingers deep, pushing in and _in_ , milking him for all that he's worth, and if all Credence is worth is the shiver-feel that's burning through him like a wildfire — then he's happy to burn.  
  
  
  
  
_In this version of events, Grindelwald stays in Germany._  
  
  
  
  
He pulls at the sheets beneath him, dragging them out of the corners they're tucked into as Graves runs a hand down his back. Rough, callused hands draw circles between his shoulders, traces the spurs of his bones from shoulder to spine to hip - he plays Credence like a fiddle, each touch yielding a different note, a different pitch.  
  
Graves touches him like a precious thing, like fine china. Credence dampens the pillows under him, wets the silk with sweat and tears.  
  
Heat seeps from Graves' hand and onto Credence's neck, and he gasps against the soft covers, his own teeth marks long faded from them in the low light of the room. His knees are bruised from kneeling, but not in prayer, and not for God.  
  
Nails bite into the skin of Credence's nape. Teeth follow them.  
  
When the tears spring forth, Graves is there to wipe them away.  
  
  
  
  
_In this version of events—_  
  
  
  
  
Credence crosses his ankles over the small of Graves' back, his hips canted at an angle as the older man rocks into him, rocks up into him that his head knocks against the headboard more than once. He doesn't want to take his hands from Graves's shoulders, doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't want to _look_ even when he's being told to.  
  
He knows his own limits.  
  
He knows his own desires, too.  
  
"I won't last, Mr. Graves," he gasps, like a man drowning in air, and he is pushed further into the sheets, tipped back in a way that his weight now rests fully braced on his shoulders. Credence can feel the breadth of the man's length, the _girth_ of him splitting him open — he's never felt so _much_ , never felt so pleasured that he thinks he might truly choke on it.  
  
"I don't want you to, Credence."  
  
He doesn't open his eyes, still, and he doesn't let go. What he does instead is tighten up, thighs squeezing against Graves's sides, slips a hand between their bodies to where they're both joined. Credence moves past his own erection, reaches further to where he's stretched open.  
  
He cinches his fingers at the base of Graves's length, eliciting a hiss from him. "I didn't teach you that," he growls.  
  
_You did, Mr. Graves._ The accusation never leaves the privacy of Credence's thoughts. _In my dreams, you've taught me a million times._  
  
  
  
  
_Grindelwald doesn't tear him apart—_  
  
  
  
  
Their trysts never last through the night.  
  
Every time Mr. Graves walks him back to the intersection that opens out to the Second Salemers church, Credence stalls for a little more of anything. A held hand. A kissed brow. A caressed cheek, pinched side, fingered mouth—  
  
"Take me with you," Credence says, once. He says it after Mr. Graves has left him cold in the middle of the street, staring at the empty space in which he had stood.  
  
  
  
  
_He does it all on his own._


End file.
